As mentionned, you may find the other chapters (4 to six) on my page o ... just write Kelorus_Fictions on google and click on the page with the big P.

I was young…

It took me a while to realise it—memories messing with my head, my body not matching my age—but yeah, I was young. And when I say young, I mean a bloody teenager.

Well, a teenager by Earth's standards, anyway. Because apparently, being fifteen in Martin's world was the equivalent of looking twenty and having all the perks of adulthood. I had to admit, it was weird—being so young but looking so grown-up. But then again, this world was basically medieval. Kids got married at thirteen—sometimes even eleven—and went off to war at ten. So yeah, bodies probably aged faster here.

And on top of that, in my rush to "discover" the metric system and collect my debts, I'd completely forgotten to check the date. For once, that turned out to be a stroke of luck.

786 YB—Year of Braavos. Made sense that Braavos had its own calendar, counting from the city's official founding. Of course, I had to convert it, since the books and TV series used the Westerosi calendar, which started with Aegon's Conquest. That put us in 285 AC—four years before the wannabe pirates kicked off their rebellion and roughly fifteen years before the undead apocalypse.

Which was great news for me. It gave me time—time to prepare, and more importantly, time to enjoy life. Plus, knowing what was coming gave me a serious advantage. All I had to do now was—

"My lord? Master Saliori has arrived."

I snapped out of my thoughts at the sound of Castor's voice. I had a habit of zoning out, especially when I was deep in my plans…

"Let him in."

With that, Castor left, presumably to fetch the master glassmaker.

It had been a week since I'd commissioned a proper decanter from him, and I hadn't heard a thing since. At first, I figured he either couldn't pull it off or had found a better-paying patron. But if he was here today, then he must have been working on my request after all.

A few moments later, Castor returned with an older man—bald as Dwayne Johnson, but with a long, well-kept goatee. He carried a closed box in his hands.

"My lord Bardatto, I am SALIORI Belenhor of Myr, master glassmaker in search of a worthy patron. I bring you your order."

I had to hold back a grin—for once, someone who got straight to the point.

"A pleasure, Master Saliori."

I gave him a small gesture, inviting him to open the box. Carefully, he lifted the lid, revealing a beautifully crafted crystal decanter—with an ornate handle, a delicate spout, and, most importantly, a wide, stable base.

I didn't need to inspect it closely to know it matched my design. The real question was—would it do what I needed it to?

"Castor, open a cask and fill the decanter halfway. Then bring it back with two full cups."

My steward gave me a curious look but quickly left to follow my instructions. I turned back to the glassmaker, who was eyeing my wooden ruler with interest.

"I have to say, the craftsmanship is impressive—but we'll know for sure in an hour or two."

"An hour, my lord?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Ah. Right. They didn't use hours here. Time was measured in broad strokes—dawn, morning, midday, afternoon, dusk, and full night—or by bell tolls marking shifts and important events.

I pointed to one of my "inventions"—nothing groundbreaking. Just a sundial, placed in the corner of my desk. Luckily, this room didn't have a proper ceiling, just a glass dome that let in plenty of sunlight. And today, the weather was on my side.

I'd drawn up the design myself before hiring a goldsmith to make it. Of course, I had him sign a contract first—strictly forbidding him from talking about, copying, or reproducing my design in any way. And just to be safe, I bought out his entire workshop.

I could have used an hourglass, but flipping it over constantly would've been a pain. Same with a water clock—not exactly practical. To be fair, only the hourglass existed here, and I'd never actually looked into how water clocks worked.

Anyway, six days later, I had a sleek bronze sundial. I had to make a few adjustments, though—I knew from the maps that we were in the Northern Hemisphere. To get the angle right, I brought in one of my sailors (perks of owning a fleet). He used an astrolabe to measure the latitude—proving in the process that he actually knew his stuff—and came up with an angle of 47.

We made the final tweaks, and boom—fully functional gold-plated bronze sundial. It showed the hours, half-hours, and quarter-hours. Anything more detailed would've needed a much bigger dial…

"As you can see, it's currently eleven o'clock," I said, pointing at the 11. "When the shadow reaches twelve, it'll be noon—meaning an hour has passed."

"This is incredible! Where did this sundial come from? How does it work? What is—"

"It's one of my inventions, and for now, it stays a secret," I cut him off. "As for how it works—not your concern right now. We'll talk more once the decanter has proven itself."

He shut his mouth and nodded. I saw him swallow, his throat making an audible gulp.

Castor returned to the room carrying the decanter and two glasses, all neatly arranged on a tray. I took one of the glasses and handed it to the glassmaker.

"We're going to taste this wine first, drinking half the glass. In an hour, we'll finish them before trying the wine from the decanter."

"Thank you," he said, accepting the glass. "But what exactly are we testing?"

"If you've done your job right, you'll notice soon enough."

He nodded before taking a sip, and I did the same.

"In the meantime, have a seat. Might as well read a book while you're at it," I added, downing half my glass in one go.

The wine was heavy, way too tannic—no aeration at all. The perfect test for the decanter. Saliori followed suit, then sat on one of the chaise lounges, picking up a book on Braavosi poetry. Not exactly my thing… I went back to my desk to admire my latest creation.

I'd hired a master carpenter to ask how they ensured straight angles in buildings. He showed me a builder's square, an old-school tool I'd actually seen before in a documentary about medieval construction. I bought it off him for a bronze shield.

That bastard had tried to charge me three shields for a simple wooden tool, but I gently reminded him there were plenty of other craftsmen in the city… ones I hadn't yet threatened. So, one bronze shield it was.

Judging by how tightly he clenched his jaw, it must have stung. Not that I cared—I was rich, and I intended to stay that way. As my gran always said, you get rich by watching every penny.

Oh yeah, Braavos had its own currency—something Grimm never mentioned in his books. I'd quickly learned that their monetary system was refreshingly simple, which was a relief.

From smallest to largest, they had:

The Wretch

The Copper Shard

The Iron Mark

The Bronze Shield

The Silver Mark

The Golden Ducat

The Crown of Braavos (Fine gold)

Ducats were worth the same as Westerosi Gold Dragons (roughly 210 Silver Stags), but the Crowns were even more valuable and used only by the wealthiest families—like mine. My fortune was estimated in the hundreds of thousands of Crowns, so I wasn't about to convert it into Dragons anytime soon.

And thankfully, unlike Westeros, Braavos used a proper decimal system—each coin was worth exactly ten of the previous one. A miracle of financial intelligence. No wonder they had the Iron Bank.

Anyway, as I was saying, I'd bought a builder's square to get perfect right angles. Using that and my wooden ruler, I drew out a triangle on parchment, then had a carpenter make it into a proper wooden set square.

And now, I was admiring it with a massive grin. The proportions were perfect—24 centimetres along the base, 32 centimetres high, and a 40-centimetre diagonal.

With my set square and a basic compass, I was ready to tackle my next essential project—the bloody protractor.

I started by drawing a 10 cm straight line using the set square. Then, I drew a perfect right angle at the centre, marking 90 at the top, 0 at the start, and 180 at the other end. So far, so good.

And then, I hit a problem.

A big problem.

How the hell was I supposed to divide this right angle properly without a modern protractor?

I had an idea, but no way was I going to eyeball it—I didn't want to end up with a wobbly mess on my parchment.

I grabbed my compass and placed the point exactly at the intersection of the two lines—dead centre of my right angle. I opened it up roughly (but not too randomly—precision mattered) and drew an arc that cut through both lines.

Two points appeared. Perfect.

Next, I placed the compass point on one of those marks and, without changing the radius, drew a new arc inside the angle. Then I did the same from the other side.

And BAM! The two arcs intersected.

A quick flick of my charcoal pencil, and I connected that point back to the origin—TADAA, a perfect 45 angle!

Easy.

An eight-year-old could do it. But I'd bet my entire fortune that not a single bastard in this world had figured it out yet.

Maybe the Maesters? I didn't trust those book-hoarding rats, hoarding knowledge like a squirrel hoards nuts. And if you dared take one, they'd go feral.

Right, with my 45 sorted, next up—30 and 60.

Thankfully, maths was on my side.

An equilateral triangle has three 60 angles, so if I could draw one, I had my reference.

I drew a big circle from the centre of my right angle.

I placed the compass point where the circle met the horizontal line.

Without changing the radius, I made another mark on the circle.

Connected that mark to the centre, and BOOM—one perfect 60 angle!

And since the vertical line split the 60 angle in half, that automatically gave me a 30 angle on the other side.

Well done, me. Some people are just born with talent.

But the work wasn't done yet…

Now that everything was drawn out, I had to mark the divisions properly.

I made long, clear marks every 10.

Small ticks for each individual degree—because I was a precision freak.

Neatly numbered everything, so I wouldn't have to squint at a mess later.

And because I had style, I took my charcoal and carefully labelled the key angles. A masterpiece. Well, my masterpiece, anyway.

I looked up, checking the sundial. Half an hour? Bloody hell, that took longer than I thought. And when I glanced at the chaise lounge, I noticed Saliori watching me, practically hypnotised. He was probably wondering what the hell I was doing.

I refocused on my work.

It was beautiful—really well done—but I needed a proper version.

"Cas—" I started.

"Right away, my lord."

I'll deny it to my grave, but I nearly screamed like one of those girls getting slaughtered in Scary Movie. My steward had clearly picked up on my habits because, without missing a beat, he grabbed the parchment I'd just finished and left, no doubt heading straight for the carpenter.

Good thing that carpenter worked for me. He could have made a fortune off my ideas… but that fortune was mine.

And with a nice thirty minutes left, I could tackle my fourth major issue.

See, I'd introduced the graduated ruler and nailed down a proper protractor. But there was still a crucial problem—

Volume.

Because in this world full of amateurs, no one had thought to standardise their units.

A Myrish merchant would talk in pints, a Reach farmer in bushels, a Dornish noble in amphorae, and even barrels varied in size depending on the region. The reports were clear—everyone used their own damn system, and none of them matched up.

Absolute chaos.

How the hell do you trade properly with standards like that? How do you set stable prices? You don't. Not in this mess.

So, I was going to fix it.

The solution?

Standardise everything.

Create a precise, reproducible, transportable one-litre container.

I already knew a litre was 1,000 cm—a cube measuring 10 cm on each side. Easy to make, sure. That was part of why I'd created my ruler in the first place. But as simple as that was, it was completely impractical. A cube was shit for transporting liquids. I mean, I'd never seen wine or oil sold in cubes.

So, I needed a cylinder—way better for liquids.

Luckily, I was reasonably intelligent, and school had drilled enough maths into my head. I knew that the volume of a cylinder was calculated using pi, the radius squared, and the height.

With all the basics sorted, I scribbled down the equation on parchment:

V = πrh

I needed 1,000 cm (one litre), so:

πrh = 1000

Since I was sketching everything in centimetres, I needed a simple, practical diameter. I went with 10 cm, making the radius 5.

Then, the calculation:

π (5) h = 1000
So, 25πh = 1000
Divide both sides, and I got:

h = 1000 / 25π

With π 3.14, that gave me:

h = 1000 / (25 x 3.14)
h = 1000 / 78.5
h 12.73 cm

Perfect. Well-measured and easy to sketch. So, I grabbed a fresh parchment and started drawing it out in charcoal—a cylinder, 10 cm in diameter, 12.73 cm tall. Didn't give a damn about the material.

On a separate sheet, I sketched a graduated measuring bowl—like the ones used in kitchens or chemistry labs. I marked lines every 1.27 cm for 100 ml increments.

"One hour has passed, my lord."

I looked up at Castor's voice. He had returned and was pointing to the sundial—twelve o'clock.

Damn. Time really flew.

I rolled up the first parchment and handed it to him, along with my ruler.

"Find me a potter, a blacksmith, or any craftsman who can make this exactly to measurement. The ruler stays with you, and keep this project confidential."

Castor hesitated for a moment, clearly thinking.

"You are the patron of a potter, my lord. I'll take it to him immediately."

And with that, he was gone, leaving me alone with Saliori.

"Well, an hour's up," I said.

I turned my attention to the decanter. The wine had already lightened, showing a more vibrant colour. I'd done similar tests with the decanters I already had, so I could tell there was a clear improvement.

We finished the wine already in the glasses, then I poured us both a glass with the decanter.

"One sip will tell us if your work is a success."

"I… see. I suppose we're comparing it to the first glass?"

I just nodded.

Gently swirling the wine, I brought the glass to my nose and took a deep breath. There were woody, slightly floral notes—just from the scent, the difference was obvious. I took a sip.

And I smiled.

The wine tasted so much better—properly aerated. Not perfectly oxygenated yet, but the improvement was undeniable.

"This is incredible! But how?" Saliori asked.

"Wine needs air to bring out its flavour. Being bottled up dulls it. The decanter I had you make is designed to let it breathe over time—while also making it easier to pour."

I pointed at the glass rims—clean, no stray droplets. The spout had done its job perfectly.

"You've met my expectations. So, as promised, I'll fund you. Sit down—we have terms to discuss."

Saliori sat down across from me, still holding his glass, his gaze shifting between the decanter and me. He had the look of a man who'd just witnessed a bloody miracle. And in a way, he had.

Me? I was just showing him that the world could be better… as long as it was under my control.

He wetted his lips, hesitating.

"I must admit, Lord Bardatto, this decanter exceeds all my expectations… But this isn't just glasswork. This is… engineering."

He was starting to get it.

Finally.

I swirled my wine between my fingers.

"You think I brought you here just for a bloody decanter?"

Saliori shook his head slightly.

"I'm beginning to think not."

Good answer.

I set my glass down and leaned forward slightly.

"I want to make you the most influential glassmaker in Braavos. Not just some craftsman selling goblets to half-dead drunks. No, no. You're going to create objects that everyone needs."

He frowned slightly.

"Everyone?"

"Exactly."

I picked up the second parchment from my liquid measurement project—the one with the graduated bowl I'd drawn earlier.

I tapped the sketch with my finger.

"This right here? This is the future."

Saliori squinted and leaned in to examine the drawing.

He didn't speak immediately, which was already a good sign. He was trying to understand.

I took a breath before explaining.

"You know what pisses off every spice merchant, wine dealer, perfumer, or even the cooks in noble households?"

Saliori shook his head. I grinned.

"They don't have a single bloody standard for measuring anything. They just guess."

I pointed at the small markings inside the bowl.

"This? This is a scale. A proper, precise system. We're going to standardise liquid and solid volumes. A bowl of this size will always hold exactly one litre, with clear markings for 100 ml, 200 ml, 300 ml, and so on."

I let that sink in.

Then, I continued.

"We'll make them in different sizes—one for half a litre, another for 250 ml, maybe even a smaller one for finer measurements. We can even produce metal versions for artisans and alchemists."

Saliori was on the edge of an epiphany.

"You… want to give liquids a standard unit of measurement?"

I snapped my fingers.

"Exactly! And guess what? Anyone who wants to work with precision will have to use our bowls, our system." I smiled. "But before we go any further—let's talk business."

Saliori nodded, placing his glass carefully on the table.

"I'm listening, Lord Bardatto."

I smirked slightly. He was already in financial submission mode. A good start.

I tapped the base of the decanter.

"Here's the deal. You'll work under my exclusive patronage. No other sponsors, no other investors. You make glass for me, and in return, I provide you with a workshop, funding, workers if needed. In exchange, 80% of the net profits go to me."

I laid it out bluntly—direct, sharp, no hesitation.

Saliori visibly paled.

"Eighty percent?" he repeated.

"Yep." I took another sip of my wine, enjoying the now perfectly aerated aroma.

He swallowed hard. He wasn't stupid—he knew this was a golden opportunity. But at the same time, 80% was brutal.

I waited. Negotiations were a psychological game. The first to speak usually lost ground.

Finally, he went for a counteroffer.

"I… could agree to 60% in your favour."

I raised an eyebrow. Interesting. He had the guts to negotiate. That was a good sign.

I put my glass down.

"Seventy percent. And I guarantee Myr won't give you any trouble."

He flinched.

Bingo.

Myr was the biggest problem for glassmakers. They had a monopoly on the craft in this region and weren't shy about sending assassins to eliminate competition.

But me? I had influence in the Iron Bank. I had men. I had resources. And most importantly, Myr wouldn't dare make a move against a Bardatto.

…At least, I hoped not.

He thought for a moment, then nodded.

"Alright. Seventy percent."

Bloody brilliant.

I opened a drawer in my desk and pulled out a contract I'd already written up, leaving space for the percentage. Always be prepared—that was my motto.

He read through it carefully before signing. No surprise, his eyes flicked back to the sketch of my measuring bowl.

"You already have a plan for production?"

A smirk crossed my face as I signalled to Casper. He knew exactly what that meant—we'd discussed this days ago.

"Everything is ready, my lord."

I gestured for Saliori to follow me. I led him to one of my private docks, near my warehouses by the Arsenal—just two kilometres across the water.

I pointed at a construction site.

It was a bloody factory.

Workers were swarming over wooden structures, furnaces were already being assembled. My steward, Castor, was deep in discussion with a foreman.

I turned to Saliori.

"Welcome to what will soon be the largest glass production centre in Braavos."

He looked around, then fixed his gaze on me, a mix of admiration and disbelief in his eyes.

"You… started building this before I even signed."

"Of course. Because I knew you'd accept." I flashed him a wide grin. "We'll start with fine glass—decanters, luxury goblets, polished mirrors. We'll dominate the noble market, show them Myr is yesterday's news."

I took a deep breath before continuing.

"Then we move on to glazing. Glass windows, lanterns, anything that can use crystal. And after that…"

I smirked, thinking back to my past life. I had pretty common vision problems—easily fixed with…

"Lenses."

Saliori frowned.

"Lenses?"

I nodded.

"Glass, shaped to magnify objects. To help vision. To… let's say, improve certain astronomy tools. But that's not all."

Saliori caught on instantly.

"The Maesters would pay fortunes for that."

I nodded again.

"Exactly. And let's not forget merchants, lords, and scholars whose eyesight is getting worse by the day. We'll need to refine the whole convex and concave lens thing, figure out prescriptions—but we'll get there."

Silence fell. He was thinking, weighing the true weight of my proposal.

Finally, he placed both hands on the table and gave a slight bow.

"Lord Bardatto… I'm honoured to work under your protection."

And just like that, another skilled man under my command. That was satisfying.

I let Saliori leave with his contract and gave orders to speed up construction.

As always, Castor was on top of things.

"I'll have high-quality timber and specialised glassmaking tools delivered. I'll also push for faster production. At this rate, the building should be complete in another week."

"Good. Also, add more guards—we don't want Myr's spies poking around in our business."

He nodded.

I stretched, pleased. I'd been surprised at how fast they were building, but with my wealth—and zero labour laws—hiring thousands of workers on short notice wasn't an issue.

But there was still a lot to do. Producing was one thing.

Selling was another.

And more importantly…

I needed to meet Tycho Nestoris.

Because if the Iron Bank officially backed my projects, nothing would be able to stop me.

I couldn't suppress a shiver at the thought of Myr…

I'd told Saliori he had nothing to worry about. But honestly?

I had no idea if that was true.